Page 32 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
“Strand you here with me?” Jake finished, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over her trembling shoulders. “Looks that way. Gran’s subtlety knows no bounds.”
Faith watched the taillights disappear around the bend, clutching the warm jacket around her. “I c-can’t believe she just d-did that.”
“I can,” Jake said dryly, guiding her toward his truck with a hand on her back. “This is the woman who once sold my high school girlfriend a one-way ticket to Switzerland to ‘remove obstacles to my happiness.’”
Faith’s eyes widened despite her shivering. “You’re k-kidding.”
“I wish I were. The poor girl thought she’d won a contest she’d never entered.” He cranked the heat to full blast as soon as they were in the truck. “Let’s get you warmed up before hypothermia sets in. Unless you’d prefer to stay and become the first human popsicle in Texas?”
The drive back to her house was filled with swirling thoughts. The old Faith—Dr. Faith Hartwell, relationship expert with walls higher than her Victorian’s spires—screamed caution. But something had shifted during her time away, during those nightly calls where they’d shared pieces of themselves without the complication of physical presence.
Jake pulled into her driveway and killed the engine, the headlights illuminating the Victorian’s fresh sage-green exterior one last time before darkness fell.
“You’ve been quiet,” he observed, turning toward her.
“Just processing,” Faith admitted, still huddled in his jacket. “I still can’t believe Ruth abandoned me at the lake.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside before you develop pneumonia. I’ve worked too hard on this house to have you die before you can enjoy it.” He guided her up the newly rebuilt steps. “Wait until you see inside.”
Faith stepped through the front door and into what looked like a construction zone that had been hastily tidied. Drop cloths covered scaffolding in the living room, and the distinctive smell of fresh drywall permeated the air. Tools were stacked neatly against walls, and sawdust had been swept into tidy piles.
“Don’t mind the chaos,” Jake said, guiding her around a stack of lumber. “We’ve been focusing on the essentials.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he said with a grin, “you can finally ditch that trailer.”
He led her past the construction mess toward the back of the house, his hand at the small of her back. When they reached the kitchen doorway, he paused.
“Close your eyes.”
“Jake—”
“Humor me.”
Faith sighed but complied, feeling ridiculous standing there dripping and shivering with her eyes squeezed shut.
“Now open.”
The kitchen that had once been a decrepit disaster zone had been transformed into something out of an architectural magazine. Gleaming marble countertops, custom cabinetry in the exact shade of sage she’d once described as “perfect but probably impossible to match,” and a massive center island topped with a butcher block that could have graced a professional chef’s kitchen.
“Holy—” Faith caught herself. “How did you do all this?”
“Money, stubbornness, and threats to various suppliers.” Jake leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find Calacatta marble on a rush order?”
But Faith was already moving deeper into the kitchen, running her fingers over the farmhouse sink, examining the brass fixtures, opening and closing drawers with childlike wonder.
“The pot rack,” she murmured, looking up at the custom wrought-iron fixture suspended over the island. “It’s exactly like the one in my grandmother’s kitchen.”
“You mentioned it once. During one of our late-night calls.” He shrugged as if it were nothing, but the gleam in his eyes gave him away. This was a man who’d won, and he knew it.
It was then that Faith noticed the table in the breakfast nook, set for two with what appeared to be her grandmother’s china—pieces she’d stored in boxes for years, waiting for a proper home. A bottle of wine breathed beside covered dishes that filled the kitchen with mouthwatering aromas. Wildflowers spilled from a simple mason jar in the center.
“You unpacked my dishes?” she asked, stunned.
“Seemed a shame to leave them in boxes when you finally have a kitchen worthy of them.” Jake moved to pull out a chair. “Hungry?”
Faith’s stomach growled loudly in response, and they both laughed, breaking the tension.
